


The Thought That Counts

by Ilthit



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, Gen, Raffles Secret Santa, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: Raffles decides to wear his loot to a Christmas party.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ingridmatthews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/gifts).



A soiree was held every December twenty-second at Lady White’s. A long-standing tradition, it was one event on the social calendar surrounding Christmas which Raffles never neglected to attend, as the lady cared not a whit for cricket and her husband only took the mildest of interests, and so Raffles held their high opinion of him as something of a personal achievement. As his particular friend, I had been attending ever since the winter following that fateful Ides which had brought us together again and set me on our dark path.

Lord White’s house, though not in Piccadilly, was in a delightful and fashionable location, sufficiently raised to allow a view of the river from the balcony. I was grateful that the weather was mild that winter, for I was gasping for air, clutching the iron railing, and might have swallowed noxious fog until I coughed. I longed for a cigarette, but did not trust my fingers with a match. My heart was racing and my head spun. The fault, as usual, was Raffles’s.

I had only just begun to compose myself when I heard the minute click of the door behind me and spun to see the culprit himself step into the balcony behind me, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a Sullivan ready in the other. It may be the benevolence of time that now allows me to think he looked at least somewhat ashamed at the sight of my complexion, which must have been blue in the winter chill. “You poor rabbit!” he cried out merrily. “You look as if you have had a visitation.”

“A. J., you idiot!” I burst out. “Is this the caution you are so proud of? What on earth would possess you to wear—” I cut myself off. We were quite alone and high up upon the balcony, but in our line of business one must guard one’s tongue.

“I am sorry, Bunny. I should have warned you, but I knew you would not approve, so I decided not to ask. Examine yourself! Would I do this without a good reason?” He held out his arms, displaying the splendour of his cufflinks, which sported the very blue diamonds we stole from the South-African millionaire; his cravat pin, which had been swiped from the Fotheringeys last October; the watch-chain of pure gold, which I knew connected to the antique time-piece we had taken from a private collection in Kent. Even his coat-buttons were melted down silver; he had shown them to me himself earlier, boasting that they came from a candelabra from the Fotheringeys’ attic. In my state I imagined some arcane power would be able to sense their sinful origin.

“And do you find it so inconceivable that someone here should recognize your jewelry?” I asked stiffly.

“My dear Bunny, I am counting on it. To be more specific, I hope that this little trinket will prove memorable.” He winked and touched his tie. The cravat pin was particularly fine, gold inlaid with a number of small diamonds and one brilliantly cut emerald, of enough notoriety to have gained a name: the Eastern Star.

“The Fotheringeys. Explain.”

“One Fotheringey. Their youngest, Roger. You may have spotted him earlier—the young gentleman in the purple cummerbund.”

I had. Roger Fotheringey was a small, thin young man with curling red hair that had already begun to recede at his temples at the age of twenty-five. He had neither the looks or the expectations to find a profitable match and was always penniless before the next installment of his allowance came in. I had heard nothing good of him, and much that was bad; his luck at cards was as abysmal as his love for the game was great. I had been in his shoes myself once, and would have ended in the Thames had not Raffles rescued me, and so might have felt sympathy towards him had he not been so repulsive in his person. I begun to tell Raffles so, when he stopped me with a soft cry.

“Save your sympathy! The man is a villain.”

“So are we.”

“He is worse! Do you see this pin, Bunny? I took it in the dark, and it was not until later that I saw it for what it is: a clever forgery. A neat piece of glass-work, to be sure, but entirely worthless.”

“That does not surprise me. I expect the original is waiting in a pawn shop somewhere until his next allowance.”

“Until Judgment Day, more likely. Roger Fotheringey has neither means nor expectations, but the family has recovered a neat pile of money from this bauble’s insurance. One might almost say we have done them a service robbing the old place.”

“I suppose that explains a few things,” I mused. “I heard from Bunji that Fotheringey has been spreading his wealth around recently, purchasing necklaces for actresses as Christmas presents.”

“That is what I thought, as well, until I found out that Father Fotheringey is keeping the insurance money for himself. He says if Roger was so careless to leave the Star lying around in his room, he is not entitled to a penny of the proceeds.”

“Poor fellow!”

“There you go again! I tell you he is a villain of a blacker stripe than we. I am confident he is the one who cleaned out the Müllers two weeks ago.”

“Ah!”

“You know I make it a point never to abuse hospitality. Clearly Fotheringey has no such qualms. Furthermore, Bunny, he neglected to leave any false leads, and so our friends at the Metropolitan Police have been so bold as to question the guests as well as the help. I meant to leave him alone, as I was in the country at the time—”

I nodded. Raffles had spent that week visiting his sister and her reverend husband in the country, far from the scene of the crime.

“—But, if you would believe it, an officer showed up at the vicarage to ascertain my whereabouts.”

I was aghast. This was far closer brush than we wanted with the law. Inspector McKenzie had been convinced of Raffles’s innocence before, but too many close calls would have the hound on our scent once more. “Good God. He did not talk to her, did he?”

“Thank heavens he did not. I met the officer at the gate. Fotheringey may thank his stars for it, too, as I do not know what I might have done had she been disturbed. But you see, now, that this must be dealt with. As I am now quite sure it was him…”

I nodded. “Say no more.”

Raffles grinned and handed me his drink. “Good man. I knew I could rely upon you.”

I downed the stiff brandy in a gulp and followed him back into the light and bustle of the crowd. I did not know the details of my friend’s plan, but I trusted him, at the very least, to know what he was doing.

I could not help but look around for Fotheringey, but it was Raffles, without the slightest appearance of doing so, who spotted him by the drinks trolley, knocking back his cup of ambrosia. I watched Raffles move through the crowd as naturally as a leopard (I imagine) moves through the long grass and end up beside his prey. A drop of fine gin, a smile and a toss of his hair, and the two were in conversation. I did not attempt to replicate my friend’s subtlety, but sidled up to the pair to find them discussing the tragedy at the Müllers.

Fotheringey laughed, a low hacking chortle. “I suppose they will never find the man.”

“They have not been doing a very good job at all recently, have they?” Raffles tutted. “I heard about your own losses at the hands of cracksmen. What was it again that they took?” He brushed his cravat.

“Oh, what didn’t they! Pater was furious!” Fotheringey laughed again, but his laughter caught in his throat and turned into a hacking cough. I saw his eyes turn round as saucers. He had seen the pin at last.

“Such a pity! It seems no-one is safe these days. I remember that South-African, what was his name? Rosenthall? He lost a pair of priceless blue diamonds. A more extravagant set of cufflinks London had never seen.” He pulled his sleeves, displaying the blue glitter at his wrists.

“I heard Lord Thornaby suggest they were all done by the same man,” I put in. “Rosenthall, Lady Melrose, the Fotheringeys and the Müllers, all, and many others besides.”

“Nonsense, Bunny! If these crimes are connected at all, it would be a gang of criminals working together. A single man mingling in such high society, only to swipe their jewels and heirlooms—it hardly seems credible.”

“If there were such a man, he would have to be a genius. You must admit as much.”

“I dare say! And ruthless, too. One can only imagine what this mastermind would do to a victim who became a witness, let alone his competition.”

“Indeed,” said Fotheringey weakly.

“Knifed in a back alley,” I proclaimed grimly.

“Weighted with a cannon ball and tossed into the Thames.”

“Subjected to exotic tortures, too, I imagine.”

“Why, I almost feel sorry for these hypothetical witnesses! If I found I had crossed such a man, I would turn to God and renounce my sins, lest my deeds catch up with me in the most dreadful of ways.”

By now, Roger Fotheringey had gone a shade of pale bordering on deathly, with red splotches on his cheeks. It made a most unattractive combination with his hair.

A slender gloved hand snaked itself onto Raffles’s arm, and soon the cheerful impish face of Lady Catherine White peeked around his arm, the feather in her hair quivering. “Such sour looks, gentlemen! It is Christmas-season, and I’m afraid I insist on having all my guests merry.”

“I am leaping of joy like a spring lamb, I assure you, my lady,” said Raffles.

“Well then! My Alfred was to lead the carols, but he has the most dreadful cough. I thought perhaps—”

“Not I,” Raffles laughed, “but Bunny here has the truest of voices.”

“Does he, indeed?” Lady Catherine raised her eyebrows at me, and in a moment I found myself ushered to the piano, where Miss White sat poised to play. I looked back to see Raffles lean in by Fotheringey’s ear, and the latter nodding in defeat. As reckless as Raffles had been, it seemed he had once more succeeded in driving in his point. I wish I could say I felt the prickle of guilt, or that our victim’s consternation moved my heart. I spared no thought to his future, to his debts, or to his soul. I had only heart enough for my own troubles and those of Raffles. I tore my eyes away from the pair to look at the sheet music that had been hastily shoved into my hand.

I admit I laughed out loud. That brief chuckle, arising unbidden, did what the dulling heat of alcohol could not, and shook the tension left my shoulders at last. Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes, smiled, and cocked her head at me suspiciously, but I must assume she simply thought I may have been a tad too merry for the task, though I was still quite steady on my feet. I looked up to see Raffles with his arm linked with Fotheringey’s, raising a glass to me. I could not help but mirror his radiant smile. A cad or not, he was my glorious A. J. still, slim and gorgeous in his spotless black tails, his eyes glittering with dark joy. He would enjoy this.

I cleared my throat. The room quieted as Miss White struck the first chords on the piano, and so I raised my unworthy voice in “The Star of the East”.


End file.
